Leah Lays London

The blog is called So Wrong (the twisted imagination of Elsie). The fiction spans the range of pornography. And it’s good smut.

Let’s take a story at random. As the name suggests, “Dad Quest” is about a woman who fucks her father. The narrator, like others of Elsie’s, makes a point of being self-consciously deviant. With humor, she declares this as her accomplishment.

I sighed involuntarily as he penetrated me. His cock entered my body slowly, steadily, inexorably. It had been rather a long time since I’d had an honest fucking, and no matter what they say, it feels totally different when the guy isn’t wearing a condom. I could feel every texture of his cock as it moved inside me. My own father was fucking me and I was so turned on it ached. I could now officially register myself as a pervert.

She fucks him for a reason that I will leave you to discover. In the progression of the sex, Elsie has an ear for dialogue that’s natural and flowing.

“Do you want to fuck me up the ass?”

“You mean anal sex?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said, wiggling my butt seductively.

“I’ve never done that before…”

“I think you should do it to me now” I told him.

“I’ll be gentle” he said.

“Just fuck my ass” I said.

This is a conversation I have had before. It went more or less as Elsie records. The dropped commas, if they aren’t accidental, speak to the urgency of the demand.

The sex is sexy. Elsie’s skill in constructing images for fucking comprises one of her strengths. It’s what drew me to her in the first place.

He started fucking me, excruciatingly slowly, like a steam engine chugging up to speed. His eyes were narrow slits focused on mine. His thrusts were powerful, they made the bed shake, they made my tits bounce up and down. My cunt was humping back against his cock, meeting his every thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass. His breathing was hard and ragged, and so was mine.

The authorial voice has a cleanness to it. The images channel its power. There are moments of grace as well.

My dad’s come was dry on my face and chest, sticking to my shirt and flaking off. The clouds were low and grey and heavy, and it started to rain. The cold drops mixed in with the warm salty tears that ran down my cheeks.

Without effort, I could have chosen any story at all to illustrate these points. The prose isn’t perfect — none of ours is. But the language satisfies as much as it arouses, which is the best that can be said of any of us, we purveyors of prurience.

The stories often contain sex I wouldn’t choose to have in real life. I am equally certain that Elsie wouldn’t choose to have it either. Imagination ought to be more twisted than the moments of our maximal bravery. Elsie writes, and when she does, it’s with an authentic voice.